Before Instagram, before Facebook, before anyone carried the internet in their pocket, there were places like mIRC — lines of green text blinking against a black screen, usernames without faces, conversations that flickered and disappeared into the digital ether. It was clumsy, unpredictable, sometimes reckless — and it felt electric.
Connection didn’t come from a photo filter or a carefully worded post. It came from a stranger typing "hello" at a random time. It came from the wildness of not knowing who was on the other side — and not needing to perform for them. The internet back then could be a risky, unpredictable place — but it wasn’t curated. It was messy, raw, and strangely real. It was a back alley, not a stage.
Those early digital spaces were messy, imperfect, and strangely human. But as technology evolved, so did the way we presented ourselves. The raw, chaotic freedom of anonymous chats gave way to the polished, curated galleries of MySpace, the carefully built profiles of Facebook, and the endless scroll of Instagram. Then came Snapchat and TikTok — platforms where connection became even more performative, fleeting moments packaged for validation and constant attention. The need to be real was replaced by the need to be seen.
Of course, even in the real world, we perform. We wear certain masks, adjust our tone, and choose what parts of ourselves to reveal depending on who we’re speaking to. But face-to-face, presence gives us context. There’s the flicker of hesitation in someone’s eyes, the crack in a carefully rehearsed smile, the tension in a voice. Instinct has a chance to read between the lines.
On social media, those clues disappear. All that remains is the curated surface — the image someone wants us to see. The distance of the digital world makes it easier to create an illusion, and harder to break through it. We aren’t just vulnerable to the performances of others; we become vulnerable to the versions of ourselves we perform, too.
I was there for all of it — first standing at the fringes, then stepping inside. I am part of social media too. But because I came into it gradually, after years of building strong, real-world connections, I can still feel the difference. I remember what it was like to wait for someone’s voice. I know what it means to be present and real without distraction. And because of that, I feel more empowered to see through the shimmering veil that social media casts — the illusion of closeness, the performance of intimacy.
I embrace and encourage new technology. Innovation has opened incredible doors — for creativity, for learning, for connection across vast distances. But it has also built walls. Walls behind which not only predators can hide — but where people hide from themselves. Walls that allow us to curate lives so carefully that we no longer have to face our own fears, insecurities, or dreams. Walls that make it easier to stay disconnected even while appearing more "connected" than ever.
This is the world my children are growing up in. A world where social media starts shaping identity before they even have the chance to discover who they are offline. A world where the pressure to perform can feel heavier than the freedom to simply be.
How do we prepare them for this? Can we delay their entrance into these curated worlds without cutting them off entirely? Can we teach them to see the difference between authentic connection and performative connection? Can we show them that it is still possible — and still vital — to be real?
Recent stories like the new series Adolescence make these questions feel even more urgent. The show follows a young boy deeply influenced by social media, his sense of reality slowly distorted by endless streams of content, validation-seeking, and performance. It is a reminder that the lines between real and curated are blurring earlier and earlier — sometimes before a child even knows how to ask the right questions.
Maybe we can't tear down the walls entirely. Maybe the world our children inherit will always have screens and curated lives. But we can still teach them how to find the doors.
We can model real presence — putting down our phones when they speak, looking into their eyes instead of into a lens. We can create spaces where conversation happens slowly, without distraction. We can remind them that their worth isn't tied to "likes" or "followers," but to how deeply they listen, how bravely they share, how kindly they see.
We can teach them to question the performance, to recognize when they are being pulled into the illusion — and to choose, when they can, authenticity over applause.
Real connection is still possible. It always will be — because at our core, we are wired for it. Even through all the noise, the quiet voices still find each other. And that gives me hope.
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